


Try a Little Tenderness

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Community: renlylorasfest, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt "Loras is injured in a tournament but Renly finds a way to make him feel better." in the <a href="http://renlylorasfest.livejournal.com/">renlylorasfest</a> Happy Endings Comment Fest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try a Little Tenderness

"Ow." Loras winces away from Renly's hands.

"Sorry." Renly tries to be more gentle, peeling Loras's shirt off slowly, but he's still wincing. "Should I stop?"

"I don't want you to," Loras says, sounding miserable. "I won, I should have a celebratory fuck."

"You were also hurt," Renly reminds him. "I'm not going to fuck you if it'll hurt you more."

"Ride me then," Loras says, and Renly's entire groin twitches.

"I think that would still hurt you," he says. Loras pouts, a look Renly finds almost unbearably endearing at the best of times. After he's seen him get hurt, unable to rush to his side, Renly is helpless. He leans in as though he's falling over a cliff, and kisses him gently.

Loras starts smiling into the kiss. Renly goes back to taking his shirt off, careful not to move him. Loras hisses once, but doesn't stop kissing him, so Renly only slows down. Loras's breeches present no challenge, and Loras has long since removed every piece of Renly's clothing.

"How about," Renly says into his mouth, "we just use our hands?"

Loras groans in frustration. "I want to _fuck_."

"It'll hurt," Renly says. They've stopped kissing, faces still close. He runs his fingers through Loras's curls. "I won't hurt you. Please don't ask me to."

Loras sighs. "All right. But when I'm better, we'll fuck."

"Twice as much, if you like," Renly says, wrapping his hand around Loras's cock.

He goes slowly, careful of his movements. Loras has no such qualms, and jerks his hand on Renly, grip firm, rhythm fast. Renly's shaking before long, somehow still keeping his hand slow and gentle. Loras arches, then hisses sharply.

"Don't move," Renly says, his hand going still. Loras keeps moving his, and Renly curls, thrusting into Loras's hand and bending his head down, eyes sliding closed. It feels so _good_. He comes within another minute, and then languidly, slowly takes Loras to his own climax, as Loras does his best to keep still. He moves, though, and winces, until Renly has to use both hands to hold him down and finish him with his mouth.

Renly checks the bandage as he's swallowing, glad to see it's holding firm. "Are you well?"

Loras has his teeth gritted. "Can't help moving," he says, pain in every syllable, "when you do that. Shit."

Renly settles around him, curled into his side, arms circling Loras's body. He lays his head on Loras's shoulder and doesn't squeeze, just holds him. "I'd say I'm sorry, but —"

"Don't you be sorry," Loras says. "That was wonderful. Just wish it hadn't fucking hurt so much."

Renly kisses his shoulder. "I'm sorry it hurt."

"Like knives going through me," Loras says. Renly had heard him saying _hurts like buggery_ before they started fucking, but since then, he’s found other ways of saying it. “Buggery is a delicious hurt,” he’d said once. “I wouldn’t compare it to anything else.”

"Should I fetch the maester? Or something from the maester, milk of the poppy perhaps?"

"No," Loras says. "I'll be fine. Just take my mind off it."

Renly kisses his shoulder again. "Did I ever tell you the story of when Aemon the Dragonknight rode against Ser Tymon Baratheon in a tourney?" Ser Harbert used to tell him of it, during the siege, to take his mind off his empty belly. It had usually worked, especially when Renly pretended to be the Dragonknight afterwards and acted it out by running at a sandbag holding a stick.

"No," Loras says. "Did he really?"

"Yes," Renly smiles. "It was when Prince Aemon was three-and-twenty, and Ser Tymon four-and-thirty. They say Ser Tymon almost wept when he saw who he was to face, but he donned his armour. He was tall and broad, his armour gold and black, with an antlered helm."

"Like yours," Loras says. His eyes are shining. Renly beams at him.

"Yes, but with less flair." Loras laughs, then winces. Renly runs his nose along Loras's shoulder, stopping to kiss once or twice. "The Dragonknight had on silver armour threaded with red and black, and a great dragon helm. Their horses were of a kind, stallions, one brown, one black. They made a magnificent sight as they bowed to the king and walked to the ends of the lists."

"This is a lot of build-up," Loras says, "and more poetic than I've ever heard you. I thought you said books are for maesters."

"They are," Renly says. "I know this by heart, my great-uncle told it to me. Now settle down and listen."

"Yes, my lord," Loras grins. Renly rolls his eyes.

"Ser Tymon lowered his lance. Prince Aemon lowered his, and the joust began. The Dragonknight had been unseating every opponent for the past two days, and the crowd held its breath to see him unseat another. Ser Tymon rode on, the mutters of the crowd following him, painted Baratheon shield held up. The Dragonknight came on, closer, closer — until contact was made."

Loras is holding his breath. Renly forces himself not to grin and leaves only the amount of pause needed for dramatic effect. "Prince Aemon's lance broke in half when it touched Ser Tymon's shield. The impact was straight-on, and after a loud _crack_ , there came a complete shattering. Ser Tymon hung on, and the crowd were so stupefied that it took them a few moments to realise that Ser Tymon's lance had slipped under the Targaryen shield. The Dragonknight was falling from his saddle, and crashed to the ground with the shards of his lance, his horse running on without him."

" _What_?" Loras says. "He _beat_ the Dragonknight?"

Renly grins. "Ser Tymon himself didn't realise until the crowd did, and there was an almighty roar. He sat up, holding his lance as though he no longer knew what to do with it. His shield was dented, but his armour immaculate. He reached the end of the lists before he realised he should turn back, to present himself as victor to the crowd, and to the king."

"What happened then?" Loras asks.

"The Dragonknight got back on his horse and rode over to Ser Tymon. He took off his helm, and smiled, and said, 'It was well ridden.'

"'I was lucky,' Ser Tymon replied.

"'It was well ridden,' Prince Aemon repeated, and then he left Ser Tymon to bow to the Dragonknight's brother, who was already applauding."

Loras exhales, Renly's voice signalling the end. "That was a great story."

"Thanks," Renly grins. "Well told, of course."

"Oh, of course." Loras grins back. "And I feel much better now."

"Good." Renly leans up for a kiss, which Loras smiles into, and then Renly settles back on his shoulder and closes his eyes. "Do you mind if I sleep?" He’s feeling happy, and drowsy, with a faint ghost of hunger that he’s ignoring out of habit.

"Not at all," Loras says, kissing his hair. "Have sweet dreams, my love. Of knights and tourneys, and me in my shining armour."

Renly smiles, and nuzzles him, and sinks contentedly into a doze.


End file.
